


The Last Statement of Randolph Carter

by Xaire



Series: The Age of Darkness Spin-offs [1]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaire/pseuds/Xaire
Summary: This tale is a loose sequel to my other story “The Dream Path”. If you are in the middle of reading that or plan on doing so, then continue no further. Spoilers abound.Unless you want to, that is.





	The Last Statement of Randolph Carter

**Author's Note:**

> This tale is a loose sequel to my other story “The Dream Path”. If you are in the middle of reading that or plan on doing so, then continue no further. Spoilers abound. 
> 
> Unless you want to, that is.

The fire in the hearth crackled and sputtered in it’s death throes, a dull glow beaming from within the amber cracks of the well spent kindle wood. The elderly Randolph Carter—slouched and motionless in his easy chair—stared vacantly at the dying flame, utterly transfixed by the mundane yet lulling snapping of the hot ashes and the the alien ticking of his coffin-shaped Yaddithian grandfather clock. The combination of those two sounds and the glow that crept across the K’n-yanian rug between the fireplace and Carter were the only things to give ambience to the environment of his living room, which was cluttered with memorabilia galore, all gleaned from his many centuries of existence. However, none of it was visible as it was drowned in a thick veil of darkness. That darkness would ordinarily be banished by the hearth (which Carter usually kept almost perpetually ablaze) and the glow of the crystalline chandeliers in the adjacent hallway. The fire was dying, and the electric lights in the chandeliers had suddenly burned out some thirty minutes ago. Carter assumed the breaker must have burned out. He didn’t have the energy to fix it though, nor the know-how. In fact, Carter reckoned that a blown breaker in the Dreamlands did not exactly mean the same thing as a blown breaker in the real world. In the real, you had to fix it. In the dream, the breaker should never have blown to begin with since dreams are completely subject to the dreamer’s will.

 

Anyways, Carter didn’t bother with the light problem. He payed attention to that for a full forty seconds and then went back to staring at the fire.

 

It was comforting, the heat wafting from that blaze. It was the last thing he actuallyenjoyed experiencing in this crippled realm called the Dreamlands, and even now he felt like those gently dancing sprites within the blackened wood could do nothing to kill the void he felt growing in his soul. He could too easily claim that he was feeling depressed, but Carter thought that “empty” would be a more appropriate word. Empty and emotionless. Like any man, Carter’s been sad, he’s been a slave to melancholy and dread. He had felt all that nasty stuff back in his forties when he was desperately trying to find a permanent way into the very world he now squatted in, like a crying child tearing apart his room for his missing toy, daring to imagine he’ll never see it again. He felt despair again when said plan backfired and he found himself literally chatting with Yog-Sothoth, who rudely disclosed that Carter was nothing but a facet to some kind of trans-dimensional “Super Carter”. That, however, was shortly after the All-in-One had crowned Carter as one of the enigmatic Ancient Ones. Despair, joy, apotheosis, Carter could hardly describe what the bloody hell he had felt that day and that’s probably why he had simply settled for feeling depressed. However oppressive as that whole dilemma was, Carter almost found happiness when he fulfilled the bland dream that all human beings experience at least once in their lives: He became a king. A king in beautiful Ilek-Vad. For a few years (or a few hundred, maybe. Time is all kinds of wacky in the Dreamlands) he reined there, fairly peacefully, and then the Old Ones (Not the aforementioned Ancient Ones, mind you. There’s a difference, but Carter has yet to sort that out) arose from the beneath the ground and out of their dimensions and did… a lot of unspeakable things to that old mud ball Earth, as far as Carter knew that is. As the people there were on the verge of extinction, it was only a matter of time before the Dreamlands—a construct of imagination and ideas, entirely dependent on human thought—would follow them into oblivion. The great and traumatic event that Carter and his kingdom perceived as a war was in actuality the collective reactions of humanity to the Great Old Ones’ return, represented in this realm by a struggle between man and gods. At the end of this war, Ilek-Vad was one of many domains that slipped into nonexistence as people in the waking world died by the thousands, leaving Carter without a home and without a throne. For a while it seemed that the rest of the Dreamlands would follow, and that Carter would die along with every other soul.

 

Evidently, the Dreamlands were not destroyed. Carter brooded over that enigma for some time, wondering how the human race of the real world can go extinct yet the dream world can keep on ticking, until his old friend Richard Pickman (now the not-so-friendly ghoul) clarified this. Carter did not like what he heard. In short, the waking world people did survive but at the cost of their freedom and sanity. Not only was it disclosed that a considerable portion of mankind ended up as the playthings of some kind of monster known as “The Fetishist”, but Pickman also regaled him on how many were kept as livestock for the ghouls in the Kingdom of Second Throk on Earth. As unsurprising as this fact was to the old Dreamer, it was no less horrifying. Knowing that Pickman was in full support of using human people as cattle, Carter and him could no longer remain friends, and thus they went their separate ways.

 

He once heard a mysterious voice inform him that his friend was murdered. And it frightened him.

 

He lost his ability to truly dream. And it depressed him.

 

He had met Yog-Sothoth. And it oppressed him.

 

He had been crowned an Ancient One. And it made everything meaningless.

 

He had lived for thousands of years on a planet that existed long before Earth. And it drove him mad.

 

He became an alien wizard. He committed suicide

 

He had become a king. And he felt ashamed of it.

 

He fought in the very war that left the Dreamlands in shambles. And it traumatized him.

 

And He lost everything.

 

He lost his friends and his home. And it hurt him more than anything Nyarlathotep could do.

 

Now he feels nothing. He’s been alive for far too long and had experienced every state of mind a human being can articulate. What else was left? Carter should have died thousands ago, but alas he did not. The millennia have chipped away at his mind, breaking down everything that made him human. He had too many memories, and made too many mistakes. He was hurt, and in turn he hurt people. His body ached and weakened yet it would never, ever die. The very realm he had long ago sought to find serenity in had now become his own personal hell.

 

He even rescued an innocent child—that little asian girl, Clair—and sent her on her merry way to unknown Kadath. Saved her life only to condemn it all over again. Where he should have felt ashamed and saddened at the tragedy that surely befell her, Carter only felt utter emptiness, knowing that her story is just one of many pointless yarns in the infinite ocean of misery that is this goddam universe.

 

The Yaddith clock ticked away as Carter let himself slip back into the near mindless daze. The damn clock, the way it tick tick ticked always seemed too real, as if it were more than just a casual noise caused by the forth-dimensional gears meshing together within it’s metal body. It was as if that machine was actually burning and birthing seconds and minutes with each little tick it emitted, like it not only gauged time but quite literally created it. Carter thought about praying to that strange device, asking it to just stop time or reverse or do something other than constantly pushing it forward. It taunted him. Each tick was a reminder thar time was still going and yet Carter was absolutely no closer to death than he was four minutes ago.

 

Something stirred within the darkness, tapping and rustling in a way that suggested casual movement. An intruder, Carter thought. His common sense said that he should have armed himself, and warded off his visitor with the threatening sight of the M1910 stored within the drawer of the end table next to his chair. He didn’t though, even if he was aware of how vulnerable he was in his passiveness. Without understanding why, Carter sat there in silence as the intruder padded closer, remaining invisible. With interest, he listened to the curious way the quiet footsteps mingled with the ticking of the clock, creating a kind of music consisting of a rhythmic _tap, tick, tap, tick, tap, tick._

 

The intruder came to a halt before the fireplace, kneeling just low enough to allow itself to slither out of the pitch and become partially visible in the scarce firelight. The figure was anthropoid, as expected. But what wasn’t expected was the casual, soothing tone in which the being spoke. Cater remembered that voice, remembered hearing it long ago within the halls of an onyx castle atop a certain mountain.

 

“It’s awfully dark in here, Carter” Nyarlathotep smirked, staring into the glowing embers that strangely mirrored the god’s burning eyes, the only vestiges of his face that Carter could make out. “It’s not a healthy thing to mope around in a lightless room, especially at your age. Allow me.” From apparently nowhere, Nyarlathotep manifested a couple of birchwood logs and gingerly them within the hearth. Despite the fact that he could have easily created a real fire with his will alone, Nyarlathotep completed his little act by grabbing the iron poker of it’s rack and started stirring the ashes until, seconds later, the yellow and blue flames crawled back to life and began licking the birchwood. All at once the renewed heat and stout odor of burning wood began floating in Carter’s direction. Instead of being of comfort like it ordinarily would be, the sensation sent shivers up his being, seizing and locking his muscles. Just enough light filled the room again, making the coffee table and the sofa on the opposite side visible, as well as the Other God himself. Predictably, he wore the form of a swarthy, olive-skinned Egyptian man. Although, in an unexpected twist, instead of being youthful and draped in prismatic robes, he was handsomely aged—with a lined, sculpted face and salt-and-pepper colored hair—and dressed in a dreary outfit that resembled something out of a 2030’s space opera flick.

 

“Better?” The god asked with a fake smile.

 

Carter tried saying something, but with his nerves unsettled by the Crawling Chaos’ sudden presence, he could only stare dumbly at the god, who seemed as if he could barely refrain from laughing at the human’s trepidation. Finally, Carter managed to squeak “Why are you here?”

 

With a soundless chuckle, Nyarlathotep gestured for Carter to remain silent for a moment whilst he lowered himself on the couch. He arose for a brief moment to fluff the cushions and then sat back down, assuming a smug air when he crossed his thin legs and steepled his fingers, eyeing the human from across the living room. The god stayed silent for a full minute, no doubt enjoying his host’s anxiety.

 

“Why are you here?” Carter repeated.

 

Nyarlathotep spread his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Why else? I’m here to reward you.”

 

“No. Whatever it is I don’t want it.” Carter whimpered staring at his lap. He never liked making eye contact with this creature.

 

“Are you sure? Don’t lie to me. I know you, my friend.” Carter shivered when he said this. From what he learned, it’s never a good sign when the Crawling Chaos addresses one as a “friend”. Ordinarily, that meant Nyarlathotep was about to dole out something especially gruesome, but as the god’s demeanor was calm and ever so slightly more welcoming that it usually is, Carter felt a little disarmed. Nyarlathotep continued. “You helped me quite a bit a few weeks ago. So I believe it would only be appropriate to express my appreciation for your efforts.”

 

“I never wanted to bring her to you.”

 

“But you did!” Nyarlathotep taunted in a sing-song voice.

 

“What did you do to her?”

 

“I sent her home. Oh! I almost forgot, you loaned her a few items. I figured now will be as good a time as any to give them back.” The god reached into his coat pocket and extracted the Glock and holster Clair had walked away with months ago. Nyarlathotep lightly tossed the leather holster across the room and it landed in Carter’s palm. As the man set that aside, uninterested, Nyarlathotep then laid the pistol on the coffee table and slid it across it’s surface. Carter examined it and noted that it was in surprisingly good condition aside from a few dents in its metal skin and light splattering of dried blood. Carter had no want to ponder on whose arteries that must have spilled from, knowing that it was most likely Clair’s.

 

“Second.” Nyarlathotep announced, searching his pockets once more. This time he pulled out a handful of Mnarian star stones. “You know,” Nyarlathotep said setting all but one on the table. The last stone he fidgeted with, casually rubbing his fingers over the Elder Sign engraved thereon. To Carter, there’s nothing more disturbing than the sight of an outer abomination toying with a holy and supposedly potent relic. “I understand that you gave her these little trinkets so she could possibly save herself from me. How cute.” He smirked. “What’s even cuter, though, is that you knew that these star stones are ineffective against me. And you told her that. Now poetic indeed that you would hand the child a weapon and then tell her—with a smile!—that it is utterly useless. Truly, you are either far more dim witted than I initially thought or your sense of humor is as twisted as mine.” With little warning, Nyarlathotep tossed the star stone and Carter caught it. It was damaged, cracked and covered in soot, yet the sigil was unscathed and stood out like gold half buried in a heap of ashes and bones. Nyarlathotep continued “I found these in the bonfire of a slain tribe of Lengian satyrs, along with the remnants of her other belongings. Any guesses as to who the slayer of these horned deviants was?”

 

“Yes.” Carter admitted. “But I’m sure Clair had a good reason. I mean, they’re satyrs. I can imagine they were not exactly the most hospitable people.”

 

“Carter, one of them had it’s prick removed, was eviscerated, and then decapitated. I believe the girl was having a lot of fun, more so than I think you would have indulged in. You saw the mess, anyhow.”

 

Carter signed. “You said she’s at home? At least she’s safe, I suppose.”

 

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night. I’ve got one more thing to return to you and then I’ll make my offer. Here.” Finally Nyarlathotep manifested a disordered clump of red and black leather the size of a melon, awkwardly holding it in both of his hands. Carter didn’t recognize it immediately, but even from five feet away the old man could detect a very deterrent and putrid odor wafting from the Crawling Chaos’ gift. This time, the god actually bothered to walk across the room and hand the malodorous mass to Carter personally, all the while wearing a pearly grin that, superficially, betrayed only a friendly air as if Nyarlathotep were handing his old friend a fresh baked pie rather than the cloths off the back of a corpse.

 

As Nyarlathotep seated himself once more—still grinning like a subtlety demented child—Carter inspected the mass of leather, and detected another smell just beneath the sickening stench: The nectar of a Choknokaka flower. The clump Carter now held in his hands was once the very same coat he had given Clair. The fact that this simple article of clothing was now a carelessly wadded mass of tatters and shreds, soaked through with dried blood and held together with sticky pieces of putrefying flesh, spoke of the violent end the Ultharian child must have met. Shaking with shock, Carter shut his eyes, and very slowly and carefully set the shredded coat on the coffee table, afterwards wiping the flaking blood off his hands and onto his trouser legs, trying not to linger on the fact that the blood once belonged to Clair.

 

“Nyarlathotep.” Carter sternly addressed after a moment of reflection. 

 

“Hmm?” The god hummed, his taunting smile curling further.

 

Carter swallowed. “What happened to Clair?”

 

“I told you that already. I sent her home. Please, try to keep up. I know you’re old but…”

 

“Where is ‘home’?”

 

“Earth, my good man. The same little mud puddle you crawled out of.”

 

“Then what the hell happened here?” The human queried, indicating the bloodied leather.

 

“That? Do you know nothing of reverse dream-logic? One must die on Earth to be reborn in the Dreamlands, and likewise one must die in the Dreamlands to be reborn on Earth. You see, that girl was never an Ultharian to begin with. She was one of many casualties of _their_ return. To return her to her place of origin—her home—she had to die.”

 

“Was tearing her to pieces really necessary?”

 

“She’s been a really, really naughty child, Carter. That brat actually had the balls to shoot at me.”

 

They both paused while Carter tried fabricating the absurd mental image of a little girl firing (with the Glock?) at an elder deity, and found it a little hard to fathom. Carter knew he gave her advice about standing up to Nyarlathotep and what not, but he never expected her to follow through with it, much less take it that far. To say the least, Carter was quite impressed. She had done something he had been wanting to do for millennia.

 

“So she’s alive?” Carter finally asked.

 

“Do I really need to draw you fucking diagram? Yes, Carter, she’s alive. We’ve discussed this already.”

 

“But, I still don’t…!”

 

“Carter!” Nyarlathotep groaned, eyes squeezed shut, hand over his forehead. His amused face quickly morphed into a agitated grimace. “Carter, her story is done, okay? It’s finished! She’s where she needs to be right now, so you can stop playing concerned parent or concerned pedophile, or whatever the fuck you’re going for!”

 

The man frowned.

 

Nyarlathotep resumed “Remember, I came here to make an offer. So if you don’t want it, I can go back home right now and leave you to brood for a few more centuries like the melodramatic Edgar Allan Poe wannabe you are. Or you can shut your fucking ape mouth for just two minutes and listen to what I have to say! Any of those options sound good to you?”

 

Carter harrumphed under his breath, twisting his lips into a scowl. At length, he silently pondered on wether hearing Nyarlathotep out would be worth it or not. The god had “rewarded” Carter numerous times in the past, and each time thereafter he had felt a little less than rewarded to say the absolute least. As always, Nyarlathotep could be lying, but his words did hold a certain gravity unlike anything he had ever heard from the Crawling Chaos. He had no way of explaining this feeling, much less giving it any real ground, but maybe for once, Carter would entertain the idea that Nyarlathotep was being honest. It would either be the grave or suffering, and Carter was already miserable. “Okay.” The Bostonian conceded with a smack of his lips. “Let’s hear it.”

 

“As you already know, I wish to repay you for the labor you performed for me, that being the task of ferrying the Ultharian child from Leng to Kadath. You disobeyed the first command I gave you, and for that I might have severely reprehended you, but you made up for your mistake by following my second urging with virtually no resistance. Not to mention, you executed your job well, doing so efficiently and almost without error. The girl ended up dying, true…” Nyarlathotep shrugged. “But that was an easily amendable issue. Now, Carter, I ask you: What would you like me to do in return?”

 

“Leave me alone.” Carter retorted Without skipping a beat.

 

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Nyarlathotep smiled, licking his lips. He bowed his head for a moment, seemingly to think something over, before meeting Carter’s gaze again. “Let me rephrase that as a statement and a demand. I already know what you want.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Indeed. And for sure you do not want me to leave until I fulfill that wish. Now, tell me what you want. In truth.”

 

“Nyarlathotep, I…I honestly have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

 

“You fool yourself, human. You know exactly what you desire, you just don’t have the courage to face it. Through the many thousands of years you’ve walked the Earth, the Dreamlands, and beyond, you have received everything a mortal of your standing could ask for and much, much more. But you’ve never been able to experience the one thing you truly long for: Oblivion. Eternal, unfathomable oblivion. No pain, and no joy. Just unending nothing. At long last, I can give you that. If you let me.”

 

Carter expected to hear everything, but not that. He had no idea how to respond. After a life so gruelingly long, Carter never thought he would ever receive a chance to die. “How do you figure that?” Carter grunted.

 

“Because you’re human. Human beings are naturally formed to endure no more than ten decades of continued existence,both in body and mind. The consciousness of a man is finite, and thus can only contain so much knowledge and memory before the prolonged flow of neural impulses begins to destabilize. Insanity then ensues. As a disembodied soul, your neural impulses are permanently engraved into a single face of the Supreme Archetype, simulating an afterlife. However, the confines of your mind are unchanged from your years as an organism and because of that you are still unable to withstand the figurative weight of a thousand lifetimes worth of memories and feelings. In short, no man is meant to live for twenty thousand years.”

 

“So you’re going to kill me?”

 

“Yes. You’re hurting, Carter. Worse even. Pain and anger is the natural state of your species, so that alone never warrants a mercy killing, but you’ve ‘transcended’, if you will. You no longer feel the same emotions as a regular human being because you’ve literally spent so long feeling those emotions that they’ve been filed down to nearly nothing. If you feel anything, it’s only the shallowest sense. You no longer have the capacity to relate to any other human. Take Clair for example. She’s about to endure all the same things you’ve endured. She is the inheritor of experience, learning anew all the things you take for granted. Do you feel sympathy for her?”

 

“Of course I do!” Carter lied.

 

“I beg to differ. You tell her that, and you tell yourself that, but deep down you know how pointless it is to establish that necessary connection. What was your first thought when you discovered what kind of mission she was on? That she was as good as dead, right? A thought originating not from experience—because you’ve met me several times and still you’re clearly alive—but from a pessimistic philosophy that’s been festering for ages. You told her what she wanted to hear, but didn’t believe your own words. You told her those things because you needed to. But in the end you never cared about the child, did you old man?”

 

“Bullshit!”

 

“If you cared, you would have never allowed her to go to Kadath in the first place. Let me tell you plainly: you are a gear, working only towards my ends. Devoid of any other meaning in your life, you robotically abide by whatever exterior agenda crosses your path. In this case: Girl goes to Kadath, you help girl go to Kadath. And of course, paying no mind to the fact that she’s on a road that, again, you known the dangers of. Could it be that your own nihilistic subconscious philosophy dictated that her life and death is irrelevant to your own? Bottom line: you don’t care. Not for her, not for yourself, not for life. You can no longer think like a human being…”

 

“Stop!” Carter shouted, standing up as quickly as his ancients bones would allow him. His face contorted into a visage of pure rage as his gravelly voice croaked “I’m not hearing anymore of this! Letting you kill me is one thing, but being called an emotionless monster? Get out of my house right now!”

 

“Or?” Nyarlathotep taunted, watching the man storm off.

 

Carter turned. “Or? What the hell does it matter?! I know I can’t hurt you, but at least I have a choice in sucking your shit! I’m not gonna tell you again: Get out!”

 

Carter was almost out of the room and out of sight when the Crawling Chaos, keeping his composure, smoothly commanded “Look at me.”

 

Without protest, the human rounded where he stood. He silently scowled, restraining whatever retorts were on his mind and eyeing the god from across the room. Nyarlathotep stared back, using his blazing eyes to dare Carter to walk out on him. “Sit.”

 

“Why should I?” Carter scoffed.

 

“Just sit. I’m getting to my point.”

 

In the flickering firelight, Carter stood his ground, bony fist clenched tight and dull eyes leering. Nyarlathotep had him where he wanted him to be and he took the opportunity to examine the progress he made. Though the human’s eyes showed mainly anger, underneath there’s was a wound, made evident by negligible little tears twinkling in his whites. Here he is, a man who has, without argument, more bragging rights than any one human being who has ever existed, now reduced to feeble, gray-haired scarecrow—voided of all self identity and self respect—who’s sagging, liver-spotted ass was now virtually plastered to the inside of a ragged house, and likely for eternity. And Carter knew that. Nyarlathotep liked to think he had ripped open an old wound but in reality that wound never healed to begin with. The old man just learned to ignore the pain. “You’re afraid.” Nyarlathotep purred. “You’ve lost almost everything, but still you cling to fear. A wise man once said mankind’s oldest and strangest emotion is fear. As such, it must also be the last. Compassion and humility, all that’s been burned away. But you’re still afraid of one thing, and that’s death. But at the same time you yearn for it. Carter, listen to me. Your past is gone and you have no future. You have nothing to live for, and you know it. I know it’s hard to accept it, but take it from someone who knows what’s on the other side. It’s not so bad. Just let go.”

 

At last, the human seemed to breakdown. His shoulders slumped and his face relaxed as he looked away from his visitor and into the crackling fireplace, tears running down his jowls. A knowing sob escaped his lips as he asked “Why would you do this for me?”

 

“I spread death, Carter. It’s what I do. Please, sit.”

 

He obeyed, shuffling back into his chair. He leaned forward and put his face in his hands, sighing “You’re right. I’d rather die now than have to endure another minute. I don’t even know what the purpose of my life is now.”

 

“You never had a purpose. No one does. But you served me well recently, if that’s any solace.”

 

“All the more reason to just end it.” Carter looked up, gazing into the hearth—the fire within beginning to die once more—and placing his grizzled chin on top of his clasped hands. In the ensuing silence, Carter listening to the soft ticking of the coffin-like clock before continuing. “I remember Clair said she was ready to die too. I think that’s what upset me about her. She reminds me of myself.”

 

“Clair has a long road to travel, but that must remain a separate matter. I want to hear your last statement.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Surely you don’t want to go out silent? Just say what’s on your mind.”

 

“I don’t want to give a speech.”

 

“No regrets? Wishes?”

 

“Everything in my life up until this point is nothing but regret. And wishes? The world will burn the way it will burn, regardless of what I say.” Carter slouched, resting his head against the soft padding of the chair and shutting his eyes, knowing that they will never open again. He took a deep breath, absorbing the smell of burning birchwood mixed with Nyarlathotep’s outer stench. In the following seconds, Carter remembered all the key points in his life and all the moments where things went so horribly wrong. Maybe if he never read Harley’s book after his passing, or never sought after the Sunset City, or never passed through the Ultimate Gate, he would have never ended up here. If he had only been a normal person he could have been happier. But the past is what it is, and nothing a Yithan or Tindlosi can do will ever change that. He was just glad to finally be at the end of this long road. With that, he felt warm and comfortable. With finality weighing heavy on his rough voice, Carter droned “I’m ready.”

 

Nyarlathotep nodded, rising out of his chair and quietly padding over to Carter’s. In his sleep-like state, the old man barely noticed as Nyarlathotep placed a slim hand on his shoulder and said in a cold voice “It’s been nice knowing you. I’ve hated you more than any human I’ve ever met, and to have earned such loathing speaks volumes of your capabilities as a Dreamer. You were a thorn in my side, Carter, and only you have the privilege in saying that. You impressed me, human. Hei. Aa-shanta ‘nygh. You are off. Farewell, Randolph Carter, my friend.”

 

And like a pair of scissors cutting out the image of the man Randolph Carter from the still photograph of creation, Nyarlathotep willed the human’s being forever out of existence, painlessly dissolving his soul and sending him home to the oblivion he deserved. Randolph Carter was at long last dead. Only the old clothing he wore lying disheveled over the chair cushion was left.

 

After a prolonged reflection in the rapidly dimming firelight, Nyarlathotep mournfully whispered into the silence “Thank you for everything.”

 

Seconds later, Nyarlathotep made his way towards the door, passing the Yaddithian clock on the way out. He gently tapped the metal casing without so much as a sidelong glance before leaving the dead man’s house for good. At the god’s touch, the never ending ticking from the curious alien device finally ceased.


End file.
